The Elder Scrolls V: Insurgency
by BustedRobotProductions
Summary: Follow the story of Daedrale Vir, a Dunmer who is probably the most hated individual of the fourth era. He is branded a outcast by his people, a terrorist by the Empire, and shunned by most of civilization. Follow his adventure as he learns of his destiny as the greatest dragonslayer in the history of Tamriel, and uses it to validate his mysterious magical experiments.
1. Introductions

_Dragonborn._

That's what they called me. Most inhabitants of Skyrim expect the mighty Dragonborn to be a proud Nord of deep Atmoran roots, or at least some kind of human. The thought of a Dark Elf being the hero to stop the endtimes was, rather off-putting to the general population.

But whatever their thoughts, it didn't bother me. Too little time to worry about such inconsequential things, like pride, which depending upon the person, can vary from depraved to well-earned.

As I stated before, I didn't care.

I still don't care.

But that's not what this story is about. This story is about me, the Dovakiin, or Dragonborn in the common dialect. My name is Daedrale Vir, denied applicant of the "great" House Redoran of Morrowind. As someone of average intelligence might suspect, I am Dunmer. I am a male, two-hundred and thirty-seven years old, give or take a few months, and what the Thalmor refer to as, in their words, "a Terrorist, whose capture is of the highest priority". Many in Tamriel consider my livelihood as dangerous: The Dark Brotherhood, the Thalmor, the Morag Tong, a couple Houses of Morrowind, and a finger-count Daedric Princes, to state a few. Needless to say, I have a reputation most consider worthy of great thieves and pirates of old, but my agenda only seldom partakes in such things.

This is the story of how the Last Dragonborn came to be, from the old country Morrowind, to a little town the Nords called Helgen.

*This will be a continuous series based on my modded playthrough of The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. This story will delve into my main character's, Lord Daedrale Vir, entire life. From his birth, to fighting Alduin, to other stuff most people do in a Bethesda Game.*

**Also, this won't be in the first-person for the rest of the story. One time thing for the intro.*


	2. A Bottle of Sujamma

_Solstheim, Sixty-Third year of the Fourth Era, 8th day of Rain's Hand._

The marketplace of the Raven Rock Mining Settlement was always not a place to be at midday. Counting the exasperated Redoran Soldiers coming back from their early-morning patrol, the East Empire Company attempting to unload their cargo of whatever Imperial luxury item they had been told to ship that day, with the fatigued ebony-miners rushing to spend their lunch hour waiting in line at the local Sujamma vendor, it was extremely difficult to try and pass through the village proper without instigating some altercation; even more so likely, a brawl.

Nevertheless, that didn't stop the local mining foreman, a Dunmer by the name of Drevlyiin Vir, along with his wife Eira; his stalwart Nord of a wife, who at the time was with child, from attempting to lecture the captain of the Redoran Guard for previous grievances against his co-workers.

The captain of the Guard was intimidating, to say the least; even to his own subordinates. He was an 8-foot tall bulk of an elf, who many thought at first glace to be a Troll or Ogre, or some other creature of primitive brute stature. His name was Moraeg Ryt, and had been the commanding officer of the Bulwark for little over a year at the time of this confrontation. He had been stationed at Raven Rock against his will, due to his volatile nature and violent outbursts, and was put farther away from the mainland branch of House Redoran; so as to remove any chance of scandal or rumor. He was extremely unliked in the community, even more so by someone as loyally righteous as Drevlyiin Vir.

" _Ah, hello again Captain Ryt! May I ask as to what you are doing this fine day_?" asked Drevlyiin, with a facade of innocent inquiry and cheerfulness. The Captain wore the mandated Bonemold armor which radiated an ashy reflection on his person; although it had to be fitted three sizes larger, lest his chest collapse due to the lack of structural support. Moraeg motioned for his troops to return to the barracks, as if the words he would say during this exchange was not meant for the common elf; but kept two of his most trusted lieutenants, who had numerous records of illicit activity, having their records expunged by Moraeg himself, flanking him, as to create an aura of intimidation; already suffocating with menacing intent enough due to his immense person. " _Listen Vir, I don't care about whatever thrice-damned thing your workers are complaining about today, Councilor Rathril wants to load off all the ebony from 26th of First Seed come the next East Empire freighter. That means your pitiful diggers need to work during the day as well",_ said Moreag. Drevlyiin was visibly trembling in fury, but before he could retort, Moreag started again. " _Oh yeah, and they also can't be paid overtime; Councilor's request. Something about not working long or hard enough, I didn't really catch what he said, but either way, he wants it done by next Morndas."_

Drevlyiin Vir was known to be a kind man, someone with an even temper, that only showed itself in moments of righteous anger. He was a fair man, and paid his workers a fair day's wage for a fair day's work. But they worked for fifteen-hours a day, many staying even longer to finish smelting the ingots and loading them into shipping crates. This was unacceptable! The Councilor was mad as Sheogorath for thinking that he could make his already weary workers double their workload, for seemingly no given reason; although this was nothing new. Councilor Rathril was also known for his shady dealings; many suspected he pocketed a portion of every ebony shipment going out of Raven Rock, but nobody could bring forth any evidence; and any evidence actually presented was taken by the Redoran Guard Captain for "Validation and Review".

" _NO! No fetching way!_ _You tell Rathril that I'm not doing it anymore! I'm not going to partake in such a crude abuse of power; such as an N'wah like you already have!_ " yelled Drevlyiin, who now delivered these words with angry fervor to Captain Ryt, who looked dumbfounded, but quickly regained his posture of authority. Drevlyiin was about to continue his rant, but was stopped by his wife Eira, who pulled him aside and directed his attention to the marketplace proper. Everyone in the marketplace was staring at him, the Guards, the merchants, even the sleepy miners!, with wide eyes full of admiration and awe; as not many individuals stand up to corrupt authority figures, much less ones 8-feet tall and carrying an ebony sword. Drevlyiin was undeterred, and was about to unload even more of the flaming vernacular which his ancestors were proud of watching collide with a bully like Captain Moreag; when his wife quickly whispered something in his ear, and calmed his nerve; at least for the time being. The pair quickly attempted to depart; as the sound of the merchant district filled with the sounds of gossip buzzing about the two merfolk, when Captain Moraeg screamed, " _Get back here Vir! Don't think that pale-skinned bitch can pull you away just cause she's about to give!_ ". Eira stopped her husband in his tracks, swiftly grabbed a Sujamma bottle from a passerby miner, and struck Captain Moraeg across the head with the beverage urn. It exploded on impact, leaving ceramic chips embedded in the workings of his visage. The townsfolk now completely held fast; many appeared to stop breathing in anticipation. Even Moraeg's bodyguards were stunned by what had just occurred.

" _You bitch, you filthy pale-skin, ice-eater! You and that damn bitch will rot in the Bulwark until the Fifth Era!_ " gibbered Moreag, his face bleeding sufficiently enough to sate the innate Nordic appetite for bloodshed. Drevlyiin stood with a look of approval, mixed with a healthy dose of dread, as his soon-to-deliver wife walked over to his quarrel. " _You call me a bitch one more time, and I'll be sure kick your ass so hard, i'll go to Sovngarde when I die._ " , muttered the ice-lady, before spitting on the Captain as a final insult. The pair suitably departed, leaving Moraeg in a puddle of his own blood and sweat; surrounded by astounded villagers.

" _That was some show you put on back there_ ", said Drevlyiin jokingly, hoping to hear the voice of the woman he married, and not the voice of Ysgramor's chosen warrior. " _A Nord doesn't back down to some milk-drinking troll like him_ ," sassed Eira. She was now walking at a slower pace than before; as her pregnant self exerted a whole days worth of energy in just a few minutes time. " _That's what I get for marrying the descendant of Jorunn the Skald-King I suppose, a fiery spirit comes pre-packaged. But that's why I love you_ ", said Drevlyiin tenderly. Eira retorted by laughing a hearty laugh, booming is more precise, and then blushing a rosey pink. Just before they were able to enter their home and end their day on a quiet note, Eira began gasping; as though she was losing her breath with every sip of air she took. Drevlyiin was horrified, and began asking what was wrong with his beloved. The sound of a pale of water gushing onto the floor suddenly was introduced into his ears as his wife suddenly stood in place, shaking. Then, a watery substance fell out of her nether-area, and Drevlyiin was confused no more.

She was going into labor.

**Continued in Chapter. 3***

EDIT** Fixed some grammatical errors, added one last line at the bottom. Please review, or send me a message with your opinions. Thanks everyone who followed! I think I'll get another Chapter out today as well, so keep a look out.***


	3. A Burlap Sack

_Skyrim,_ _Whiterun Province, Fourth Era._

The Dwarven deep-elves were master craftsman of their time; as many of their machinations had survived to the Fourth Era, and presumably would last until the Fifth. Their creations ranged from golden-automatons that guarded their legacy with an almost religious fervor, though that would be too ironic for Dwemer standards; to giant cities of stone and brass. These city-forts were built to stand fast against almost any threat; including the forces of time. They persisted until man, once just tiny-babes in comparison to the might of the Dwarven race, had finally matured enough to understand how to build towns and villages. Cities followed, then organized civilization, then province-wide governments. Naturally, these would expand to encompass large tracts of land; on which was already a stake claimed by previous inhabitants; namely the Dwarves. Whiterun hold was infamous for having this exact problem. Just west by southwest of the capital city, and just around the Throat of the World, next to the border of the Rift, lay the untouched ruins of a Dwarven fortress; complete with metal gates, turret towers, and stone walls to spare. This overjoyed the Jarl, who at the time of this discovery, had been a scholarly fellow. His curiosity piqued, he cobbled together an expedition team to explore the mysterious fort; of which he would spearhead the exploration. When they had arrived at said fort however, they were almost instantly set upon by the fort's security system; consisting of the stereotypical Dwarven Spheres and Spiders. After being the only member of the expedition to return alive, The Jarl ordered a perimeter to be established around the circumference of the ruined city, and barred entrance to anyone demanding passage through; making it a criminal offense of the highest echelon. This law was set in stone for around two-hundred years, until the Jarl of that time devised a new plan. He would sell the land to any person willing to risk their lives for ancient Dwemer secrets! The Jarl, completely pleased with himself, made it known that any man or elf could purchase the rights to the brass acropolis, and the eldritch secrets that lay within.

But two-hundred years built too much stigma for any native to dare venture close. Their fathers, and forefathers, and fore-forefathers dictated to never go near the fort; lest they die a horrible death at the hands of a metal abomination; or the headsman's axe! No one would dare buy it; not just for fear of an early visit to Sovngarde, but many just thought it a bad investment.

It wasn't until the Hundredth and Thirty-Third year of the Fourth Era, did someone make an offer to the Jarl for the rights to the fort.

The individual who purchased the land, and thusly the fort itself, was a Dark Elf enchanter; who had introduced himself to the Jarl as Lord Daedrale Vir. He was a refugee from Morrowind as he claimed, and his story was that he had led himself to migrate to the different provinces; before finally settling in Skyrim, as he said it was the most "tame", in order to continue his research into his magickal interests unabated. As he was an outsider, he had no connection to the stigma the brass-castle held to the native Nords. He quickly purchased the land, and set off almost as quickly as he arrived; with only a burlap-sack in hand.

It was until twenty years later, when all reports of anything going in or coming out of the fort evaporated, that Daedrale Vir had been seen in Whiterun hold! He now personified a peculiar visage; even more so than that which he looked when he arrived in Skyrim. He adorned himself in an armored robe of grey and black metal, of undetermined origin. A cape of fine black silk; which flickered in the wind, was clasped to his pauldrons. The most alien of his new wardrobe was a Brass arm-piece adorning his left-forearm. This armband glowed a green hue, and had three glowing knobs that he was seen fiddling and poking at every-time he had been glanced upon in public. This was further accentuated by a grey mask he always wore under his hood; as it gave a certain enigmatic praise to his already annoyingly obscured person.

His wardrobe was interesting to say the least, but his choice of companionship was even stranger. In every sighting of Daedrale Vir, there had been another tale of a brass-man, who's eyes glowed a pale blue, and wore the same brass arm piece as his master. Many thought he had simply hired a mercenary adorned in Dwarvish Armor; but many who had seen him in the person, described him as an actual automaton! Even more so interesting was the fact that this automaton hissed no vapors of steam; nor did it click or clack with incessant frivolity. Many said, that in place of these basic robotic functions, that the brass-man emitted a gentle humming noise; many compared it to a muffled flicker of torch-flame, and exchanged friendly greetings in the common tongue! One noted alchemist in the town of Riverwood swore she sold the brass-man a cup of Dwarven Oil; many thought this irrefutable proof of the brass-mans automated nature.

These sightings of increasing oddity finally compelled the current ruler of Whiterun hold, Jarl Alfregg, that this enchanter must be interviewed; in order to determine whether his periodic appearances were of malevolent nature. He, meaning well, posted a bounty of 10,000 Septims for the capture of Daedrale Vir; wanted alive, so that he could personally judge whether this elf-being in his kingdom was nothing to fear.

Like most bounties, it attracted an illiterate and ill-intented breed of bounty hunters. Bandit chiefs scoured endlessly for any sign of the Elf or the brass-man. The three main bandit clans, led by three Barbarian-kings, agreed to the first truce between rival bandit-clans since the days of the Red Eagle. They searched, to no avail, all over the hold; and then expanded their range to the entirety of Skyrim province. The only place they dared not check, was in fact, the forbidden fortress in which Daedrale Vir had publicly made his home! The Bandit-kings, angered by their soldiers insubordination, ordered a complete siege of the castle. Wave upon wave of Vagabonds and Highwaymen fell upon the stone walls of the old city. But every last bandit was either turned back, or killed by an army of bipedal automaton soldiers!; wielding weapons not even the Dwemer were crafty enough to consider inventing. This angered the Barbarian-kings, who directed their anger to the capitol of Whiterun hold itself. But soon they realized that their entire army had fallen to the machinations!

Word had reached Jarl Alfregg that the Bandit army that amassed near the Riften Border had been decimated. Astonished at how efficient Daedrale's inventions had been, he excused himself, slinking away to recuperate in his personal chambers; but truly, only to ponder about the consequences of such a powerful army in the wrong hands.

But as soon as the doors to the Jarl's bedroom had closed, the very shadows of the room warped; to reveal that another had already entered the room! It was none other than the enigmatic Daedrale Vir himself! He was wearing his described apparel: the metal robes, the silken cape, and the brass-armband; which glowed with an eerie green light. But missing from his person, was his grey mask; as it was adorning the table in front of the seat which Daedrale sat with an inquisitive look on his face. The enchanter still wore a hood, but his entire visage was presented to Jarl Alfregg; who at entrance, stumbled for words. He was completely and utterly shocked.

" _Ysmir's beard! How did you get in here! How did you get past the guards?_ ", asked Alfregg. " _I thought you were_..."

" _Hiding in my fortress_?" finished the cloaked elf. " _No, that would be too predictable; and worse, boring_." Daedrale then reached into one of the many pouches that adorned his waist-belt, and pulled out a longpipe. He then reached for a pocket attached to his thigh, where as he plucked a spring of dried Elves Ear. He crumbled the leaf into the pipe, and lit it with his fore-finger. After taking a large drag from the longpipe, he then reached around his chair, and hefted a large burlap-sack onto the floor next to his feet. An audible slosh greeted the furnished wood, as the bag seemingly dripped blood onto the oaken planks.

" _You wanted to meet me; so that you could understand why I didn't reveal myself for twenty years. You wanted to know my motives, my intentions._ ", Daedrale added. " _I get that. But to issue a bounty, of 10,000 Septims no less, and to unintentionally hassle together the worst bandit tribes in Skyrim, just so that you could ask how I've been? Why I'm still here? "_

An uncomfortable silence, followed by the clearing the Jarl's throat, was broken by the the question asking, " _Yes. I couldn't have known your intentions here, but I had to assume the worst. I've amounted several enemies during my reign; including the Bandit-kings you spoke of. I have to ask, how did you escape their capture?_ " Jarl Alfregg was known for his strength, and his use of immeasurable bluntness; in several affairs of state, during meetings with the High-King, and now with a Dunmer Enchanter.

 _"I just followed them around, always two steps behind them. It's really funny to watch a bunch of n'wahs like them scurrying about like skeevers. But that's not important. What's important, is that I've solved your bandit problem_.", the Dark Elf clarified. He motioned for the Jarl to come closer. When Jarl Alfregg was at arms-length, Daedrale opened the burlap sack; and showed it's contents to the horrified ruler. The heads of the Three Barbarian Bandit-Kings were stacked, like potatoes in a rucksack; in a bloody, gory display!, of which the Jarl had to excuse himself to the balcony; where as he relieved his aching stomach.

" _Why, why in a bag?_ " the Jarl asked; still spitting vomit out of his mouth.

" _Because it's better than holding them with my hands_ ", Daedrale answered, with a slightly confused look on his face. Of all the alien things about this character, was his face. He was clearly of Dunmer heritage, but something else was there too. Most Dark Elves have pointed chins and faces, but Daedrale Vir's had a more rounded aspect about his. His eyes as well; they were a bright, vivid blue; not normal at all for a Dunmer. But more importantly than skull-shape, was that the Jarl's oral exports were extremely loud, and were to surely attract attention.

As the Jarl turned to retort, he found the elf gone! All traces of him being there; save the bloody burlap-sack, was gone. The mask was no longer on the table, the chair on whence the enchanter sat was undisturbed; as if nobody had sat there at all! The smoke, even the smell of the longpipe had vanished. The Jarl, staring at the bloody bag, was met by a lonesome hold guard, who had heard the Jarl's ails, and had taken it upon himself to check on the Jarl's well being. Alfregg merely lifted the bad into the confused guards hand, and said, " _Get rid of this, now. Not a word, and I'll make sure to talk to Commander Helgferth about your good work._ " As the guard departed, dazed, and holding a bloody sack, another came into the Jarl's chamber. It was Jarl Alfregg's eldest son; who had come to check on his parents well being, after hearing the noises coming from his quarters.

" _Father, I heard the most terrible noises! Are you sick, should we get the court wizard to brew you a tonic_?" inquired the young lad. This boy was all the reason Alfregg had to exist. He, and his brother. were his most prized possessions; He would one day rule Whiterun as justly as himself.

" _Go to back to bed Balgruuf, I'm fine now. I just had a bit too much venison earlier_!", quipped the Jarl.

" _Alright Father. Good night!_ "

As his son departed, Alfregg peered out of his balcony. He knew that Daedrale Vir would return for a second interview. He didn't want anymore conversations like this, so he would have to remove the bounty first. That would get his attention.

**Sorry it took so long to make this one. Was doing it hour-by-hour. Please review and tell me what you think!***

Also, I'm trying to get a decent screenshot to put for my profile, so it wont just be a questionmark.


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